These days,

streets are slippery ­­– ­sleet pushes people into shanties

always after midnight; the alarm

sets itself,

conditioned to the sound of the door

closing, while ticking off the leaves

on the doorstep.

(Seems like autumn begged their boots to stay.)

The floor groans

under the weight of winter

in their breath

As if caterpillars in lands without spring

came in, hoping

to be pinned to the walls